


Compulsion

by Luthien



Series: Aftermath [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-01
Updated: 2001-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape awaits a late night visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compulsion

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2001 but set after the end of book 7, so has now been really seriously overtaken by canon.
> 
> A follow-up to 'Aftermath', looking at Snape's perspective on the situation.

It's cold. I'm cold. Winter is not kind to me; the dungeon air seeps through my warmest robe. The fire is dangerously low and the chill creeps into everything, but I don't bother to lift my wand and bring the flames back up. I sit at my table, quill scraping against parchment, as I write out yet another lesson plan. Alone, even though it's Christmas Eve, but perhaps not alone for long.

I'm cold. My robe gapes open, letting the icy fingers of winter touch my bare skin in a freezing caress. I clutch the rough material more firmly around me and hope that that will be enough to banish the worst of the chill.

I can't believe I agreed to this, yet part of me cannot help but be amused. Oh, the irony. You spent all those years sneaking out of the school in the dead of night, trying to escape being discovered--by me, as often as not--and now, now that you've escaped for good, you're trying to sneak back in. To visit me. And maybe do more than simply visit me.

I can't wait. I've been keyed up, waiting. Well, not just tonight. For days now, waiting for this night, snapping at everyone who had the misfortune to cross my path. Nothing so unusual in that, of course. Poor old Snape. Yet another Christmas by himself at the school, when everyone else has somewhere to go, someone who wants them.

If only they knew...

Occasionally, when I feel able to step back and reflect, I think that this situation must have been set up as some great cosmic joke at my expense. Somewhere up there, someone or something is laughing.

There's a gentle tapping at the door; the quill drops from my fingers, spattering ink across the page. I didn't really think you'd manage it.

Walking over to the door, I tell myself I will _not_ shake. Everything is ready. I am nothing if not prepared. That's how I justify my actions, trying to make myself feel less than pathetic, even though no one will ever know except for me. And you, of course. I force the familiar reserve around me again, like a cloak. Like a hair shirt.

Stopping a few steps short of the door, I order it to open. I stand there, not daring to move in case I betray myself, features set in stone.

It doesn't matter. You aren't there. There's no one there at all. If not for the fact that I myself saw your invisibility cloak destroyed... Perhaps it was Peeves, slyly toying with me, though it's not his style to be so subdued. Perhaps it was the wind. Just the wind, racing through the lonely corridor. Nothing more.

I swallow my disappointment, telling myself that I shouldn't have expected that you would find a way into the school--a way to keep your promise to me. You didn't quite promise, though, did you? Just said that you would try to find a way.

The door closes.

"Hello, Severus."

You're standing before me, that impish grin that you used to share with your friends--mostly to despite me--is turned fully on me.

"Harry."

An invisibility cloak. I should have known. Another one, to replace the one you lost during the events that we never mention. It's on the floor, pooled about your feet.

It won't be the last garment you shed tonight. I'll make very sure of that.

Neither of us says anything more. Words always seem to make it complicated, and really it's not. It's the simplest of equations. One and one. You and I. Us. What it adds up to is something that is beyond my power to resist.

I remove your glasses with one hand while the other comes to rest on your shoulder. I can feel you tremble through the thick fabric of your robes. A quick, hard kiss follows and your arms come up around my neck.

I feel cold, yet a hot chill takes hold of me. The fire flares up suddenly behind the grate.

My hands are on you, peeling away the layers of clothing, sliding up and down your arms, discovering you again. Your skin is cold. I can pretend, I think, that I'm simply warming you, that touching you is a choice rather than a necessity.

Such lovely skin. So beautiful. I could say that to you, but I won't. It's one thing for me to think myself pathetic, but I can't let you see it, too. I still have some pride left.

You relax against me. My hands are all over you, trying to map the shapes and planes I dream of into a three dimensional memory. Your head rests on my shoulder, lips against my neck, and your eyes close, as though this is the most natural thing in the world instead of a compulsion I can't control.

I can't stop touching you, and you don't even realise it. But then, why should you? Despite these things we do together, I'm still the authority figure to you. Less than a year ago, I was your teacher. Teachers don't have needs, according to the conventional wisdom of the student body. Especially Snape.

Perhaps you do realise, at least a little, because you lift your head and take a step back, forcing me to break contact. Your arms disentangle themselves from me and I feel the loss of them--until your hands find the fastenings of my robes. You're no longer so relaxed, are you? Impatient now. I let you disrobe me. They drop to the floor, a heavy weight; I am quite naked beneath. Yes, it has been a cold and uncomfortable wait for you this evening, but worth it for the time saved now.

Another kiss, and your body cleaves against mine. It shouldn't fit so well. It makes everything harder. In every sense.

You notice my reaction, and I can feel the small, pleased laugh rumble in your throat. You enjoy the power that you sense you have over me, though you only know the least of it.

Resentment springs up inside me: a more useful emotion than the powerlessness of a moment ago. I draw us across the room--you don't resist--to the alcove where the bed awaits us. I lower myself onto the bed and lie back against the pillows. You stand there, unmoving. Watching.

Come. Choose to be with me. This is an invitation, not an instruction.

And then you are on me, your unbounded eagerness thankfully camouflaging my doubts. It still mystifies me, that I can inspire such unflagging enthusiasm. The first time, now, well, that was different. A moment of insanity in a world gone mad; and, at the same time, the only course of action that made any sort of sense. You had passed through a wall of fire and come out the other side. And I was there. Sometimes, I'm only weak and human, underneath it all. It was a heady temptation, one that I could not resist: I could give you what you needed even while pandering to my own weaknesses, my own theretofore unspoken desires. I understood, as possibly no one else could. That's not arrogance speaking, but just the simple truth. I have seen and done things, experienced things, of which I am not proud. Of which I will not speak.

So have you. You did not speak to me of what you saw that night, alone in that burning building. You didn't have to.

Your lips are slipping down my neck. They engulf the world, for a hot, sweet moment, and I've lost my train of thought. My arms slip up around your back. As I said, I can't keep my hands from you--even when you are already touching me, it would seem. I clutch you to me--that unwelcome need again. I force my hands to loosen their desperate grip. I reach around to the back of your neck and encourage your face down to meet mine, so that it will seem as though all my recent actions were merely designed to manoeuvre us into a kiss. Nothing more or less than that. And what's wrong with a kiss, anyway? It's easier to maintain the illusion of equality when we're like this. Everyone's the same height in bed, as a fool once said.

Your mouth leaves mine and starts to make its way down my body. You pull yourself out of my embrace and move off me, allowing hands and lips to continue their quest, further, further... I arch into your mouth. Slowly, slowly. Mustn't let such a simple action overwhelm me. That really would be pathetic.

I can't prevent the gasp of delight that escapes me as your tongue finishes exploring the length of me and starts up an insistent, gentle stroking in just the right place. Good God! When did you learn how to do that? Who taught you? Then jealous fury uncoils within me. Who? Who else has touched you? Who has dared?

I force the anger down. Of course, you are a quick study, when you so choose. I did just the same thing to you last time. It seems you were paying better attention to that particular lesson than you ever did in Potions class.

Still, it's been spoilt for me. This time, anyway. I pull you off me and drag you up the bed beside me. My tongue's ruthless and punishing in your mouth. Another kiss, even if a somewhat violent one. Anyone might think this many kisses a trifle excessive. You don't, though. You pull back, and there's confusion in your eyes. You don't know what you've done.

I draw in a deep breath, shakier than I'd like. It's that damned vulnerability of yours that does it. Every time. If not for that...

Your hand's on my cheek now. You're kissing me. Gentle and apologetic. I can't fight that. Why do I bother? I know that I want to give in. That I will give in.

I do give in.

Greedy hands are on you again, sliding down your chest this time. Down across your belly, and beyond. I remember the first time I did this to you. Not so different from now. Except that then I believed I was the one with the power.

Perhaps I still possess a little power. My hands play your body like an instrument, and you respond. You move beneath me, your breath catches, your hands are on my hips, pulling me down, grinding us together--and I am lost.

I'm all over you. I can't--

I fling myself onto my back and I lie there, panting beside you.

Once, my ambition burned brightly. Once, I wanted to conquer the world. A worthy goal for a Slytherin to strive for.

No longer.

Right now, my entire ambition is wrapped up in your body. My only goal, my only need, is to conquer you. Even less than that: my only need is to have you.

Which is less likely? That a burnt out, used up Potions Master fast on the downhill slide to middle age should conquer the world? Or that the pride of Gryffindor should find his destiny with a once-was, a Slytherin old enough to-- Old enough.

You're looking at me again. You can tell that some madness has gripped me tonight. How could you not? But you don't know the cause. Not yet.

You roll over. It's not a chance action. It's a choice. The decision has been made.

Remember I told you that I was prepared? A Potions Master should at the very least have a potion for every occasion, and I do. This is a warm, viscous one. I take some in my hand. It gives me an excuse to touch you again, to ready you for what you have chosen.

Smooth and firm, white and warm. Mine. It's hypnotic, watching my fingers move against you, circling in, ever closer, getting you ready.

Of course, I don't have to do it this way. You think there aren't spells specifically intended to meet this particular need? They're not the sort of thing that you'd ever find on the syllabus at Hogwarts, of course, but I know them. The legacy of a misspent youth. I don't want to consider them now. I want to do this slowly, deliberately, so that there is no room for doubt or confusion about who it is that is doing this to you. So that you never forget.

You groan and I know you're impatient with waiting.

So am I. My hand leaves you and moves to myself for a moment. A few long strokes and I'm ready. So very ready. Achingly ready.

I'm on my back again and you're there, straddled above me. Positioning is everything. You are a Seeker--of course you find it.

And here we are.

You move, a slight flex of your hips, and I can't help but respond. The feeling streaks out, like lightning through my body, making my back arch and my toes curl.

And then it's all a tangle of sensation. No nice easy Point A to B to C to D then--conclusion. It's all mixed up. Fast and hard. Desperate kisses, bruising caresses, teeth at my neck, fingernails cutting into skin, and your eyes closing in pleasure above me, until that's all that's left.

Afterwards, you curl yourself around me. I don't object to that.

I doze; you sleep.

The candles by the bed are close to guttering when I rouse myself. We're sticky. The residue of bodily fluids is less than erotic, especially when it grows cold. I shouldn't have left my wand over there by the table; it would be of more use to me here. Yes, of course there are spells for this, too. Where have you been? Did you daydream your way through Charms as well? Just as well you're asleep and can't answer that one.

I try to lift my body away from yours--gently, so I don't disturb you--but you make a small sound of protest and shift in your sleep. You mutter something urgently into the pillow and then your muscles tense. Your jaw clenches, though you have not woken. You are dreaming of Something Unpleasant.

I disengage myself from the tangle of limbs, despite your clinging, but stop to stroke the side of your face. For some reason that always soothes you, and after a moment or so you subside into untroubled sleep once more. I wonder how you manage to sleep through the night when I'm not there to help you through the nightmares?

The answer, of course, is that you don't sleep through the night.

I see the pain in you, and I recognise it. I know it. We are damaged by the world, you and I. We are the same.

The same, yet not the same. You're the famous Harry Potter--as if I could ever forget--cast by fate in the role of protagonist. And what am I? Merely one of the supporting players. That is all. A lesser satellite. Once, I thought I was more than that, that you might be simply part of _my_ story. I know better now. My part in the tale will be done, soon, but it will go on without me. You will go on without me.

I see the confusion in your eyes, sometimes, as though you're about to ask--and then think better of it.

You don't understand, but you will. In time. One day.

You think that perhaps I'm ashamed of... this. Of you. It confuses you, still so young. Likes and dislikes are so easy, so straightforward for you, even after all you've been through. Even _he_ could not take that quality from you. If one is happy, one shares it with the world. If one hates, then one shares that with the world, too. This thing between us doesn't fit such easy expectations. It confuses you. You don't know what to do with it. You know that I want you. You know that I'm pleased you are here with me. So why don't I want anyone else to know?

You never were all that good at reasoning and deduction, were you? Oh, you could have been. You had the brains for it; you just never applied them except when the situation forced you into it. So you don't try to understand my motives. Or perhaps I am being unfair. That's always possible. Even after everything you've been through--from the moment your parents died trying to protect you, and every moment since--you still can't quite comprehend me, can you? There is a kinship between us. Both injured by life, we are. And yet, my pain is older. _I_ am older. That's the heart of it, and you just don't see it. Easier to imagine that I really might be the bastard you always thought me, that I am ashamed of you. That I am ashamed of us.

In truth, I am only ashamed of one of us. Ashamed that he has not yet found the strength to give you up completely, to send you away a final time.

I look at your skin, warm and golden in the candlelight. Head back against my pillow, untidy hair falling into your eyes. So young. Mine, for the moment. Only for the moment.

I remind myself of that a hundred times every day. Two hundred times. Three hundred. It does no good. I cannot concentrate on 'for the moment.' My mind dwells on 'mine', instead, and strays to thoughts of the next time. Places where we can meet in secret. Our next rendezvous. How tawdry that sounds, and yet my heartbeat quickens, barely perceptibly, just the same.

I must wake you soon and send you on your way.

Maybe, one day, the dawn will come and you will still be here. Not that we could see it, in this window-less hole that is my home. Yet I would know. To awaken and not to be alone. That might be something. _We_ might be something.

A pity I cannot allow it. You will thank me one day.


End file.
